


I'm Your Man

by Clarice Chiara Sorcha (claricechiarasorcha)



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Drabble, Loki being a little shit, M/M, Plot What Plot, Pseudo-Incest, hunting and subsequent very odd bloodplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 03:36:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claricechiarasorcha/pseuds/Clarice%20Chiara%20Sorcha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An impending name day leads Thor to incite Loki to the hunt in order to fulfill one ritual of manhood. Loki in turn invokes another, as should always and ever be his right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Your Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whimsicalmuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicalmuse/gifts).



> The other day I ended up home poorly from work on account of a headcold, and after napping the afternoon away I decided to ask for random prompts for little drabbles while sifting about tumblr. This particular one read as follows:
> 
> _First time Thorki. You pick the hows and whens. Or moar mpreg. :D Or some shit (first time) where the bros are very competitve over something and don’t like each other but totally do and them BOOM._
> 
> So, this is for the lovely and talented whimsicalmuse...I'm still not entirely convinced I managed to write to the actual prompt, but this bloody imagery leapt into my head and wouldn't let it go.
> 
> ...dammit, Loki...
> 
> Also, cheesy title is cheesy and is entirely the fault of my listening to Nick Cave covering Leonard Cohen's [_I'm Your Man_](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_2jyw2m9zfA) while writing this. Um.

There’s no way of saying when it actually begins, this game between them, because it seems to have started with the very act of Loki’s birth. Thor does not remember his life without Loki, because it seems to his mind that his brother is but another constant of gleaming golden unchanging Asgard. Cast of lean long shadow, Loki has always been every sly whisper in the dark, has ever been the cool manacle of reason locked about his brother’s wrist that to hold him back, to render him still.

Nevertheless Thor is no creature of stillness. He is a prince, but he has no wish to be pandered to, to be pampered and protected. He wishes to take no sweet thing offered to him by open hand; he wishes to hunt, to feed upon raw flesh dripping with the rich tang of iron and fear and adrenaline.

But Loki, who would never accept something from an outstretched palm without biting it first, has no care for such pageantry, such showmanship. If he cares to hunt, he does so by stealth and sly seiðr, unsheathing his long knives in the dark. The others tire of his tricks and his games, and often will beg off coming on any journey where Loki lurks in the line – or they entreat Thor to not invite Loki at all. As the years trickle past, only Thor knows Loki will now not come even if he got down on his knees and pleaded for his company.

And so it is, that he comes to him with a great white hart draped over his shoulders, and dumps the slain creature upon his brother’s desk. Fury snaps brilliant in his eyes when Loki looks up from his ruined study, meets without flinching the grim challenge of deep storm-sky blue.

“What is this?”

There is careful warning in his words, pleasant as they are. Thor’s own smile is all easy sarcasm, something he habitually has not much patience for. “A gift.”

“A gift?”

“For your name day.”

Any amusement Loki has found in the situation evaporates, even as blood curls and curdles upon wood and page. “My name day.”

“You are to make a kill of some great creature to prove your manhood,” Thor says, easy in his arrogance even in the face of such flat fury, “but you seem content to spend all your days in libraries and laboratories. Therefore I thought I would do it for you.”

One eyebrow arcs in high sharp curve. “To save the honour of my name?”

“We are both Odinson, are we not?”

The punch takes him not entirely by surprise; even though he allows it Thor still staggers beneath its power. When he looks up Loki is gone, a trail of gore-soaked papers scattered in his wake. Thor runs his hand across his lip, looks at the blood there, and smiles.

He has never much been one for plotting and for planning. Despite a lack of practice, this scheme still seems to be unfolding itself just fine.

 

*****

 

“Is this enough proof, do you think?”

Thor bolts upright from swaddling covers and furs, finds a creature of brilliant white all wreathed in moonlight at the foot of his bed. It is a great snowbear with the voice of his brother, heralded by a trail of black blood from door to hulking height. One clawed paw rises, throws back the snarling head as if it were a hood. Loki is revealed to lurk beneath, snowflakes still crusted impossibly in hair and eyelash, bright stellate drops of blood splattered upon the cold ivory of his skin. But his eyes are brilliant seiðr-wrought fire, the claws over his hands glinting in the silver light.

“I am a man, now,” he says. Each word is as soft and dangerous as the cold-sleep that had claimed as many warriors in the war as the Jötnar beasts themselves, and Thor feels dark heat uncoil like a roused serpent low in his gut.

“You are.”

One step forward, and snow shakes from the broad borrowed shoulders as but one side of his mouth curls upward. “So shall I prove it to you?”

“You alr—”

Loki is on him in a second, rich with the scent of animal and musk and warm rich blood. He tastes of unfamiliar snow, of lands Thor has never known. But then he _burns_ , the bite of frost and winter. His nails carve rich furrow in the tensed muscle of upper arms, and his body is glacial weight upon his brother.

“This is not what men do,” Thor whispers, even as his body denies Loki nothing.

“But I do what I want,” said brother murmurs against his lips, and Thor gives back a chuckle that rolls like brontide in the broad expanse of his chest.

“And what of that which _I_ want?”

“And what _do_ you want, brother?”

Loki waits for no answer, one hand sliding beneath the loosened drawstring to fist about his cock. Thor’s whole body betrays him in welcome glee, jerking beneath the thrill of cold touch even though Loki wears both warm blood and bearskin upon his narrow frame. When he leans down he fiercely engages him in what is not their first kiss. But it is the first time they have gone so far in what has so long lain unspoken between them. Loki kneels between his brother’s spread thighs and looks down upon his opened sleep trousers, tongue upon lip, teeth streaked impossibly with blood.

“Did you _eat_ it?”

“I am ravenous.” This is more bite than kiss, his tongue thrust deep and one hand about their cocks both, pumping hard and erratic, like animals rutting together. In this Loki is blazingly alive beneath his snow-flaked cloak of wrought bloodied death.

Thor’s own skin is afire, too tight and tense by half, the muscles beneath screaming for release and reversal. That act of shoving Loki back, hard and unforgiving, is both necessary evil and welcome pleasure. As his brother scrambles for the upper hand Thor sheds everything he wears, and then too casts the bearskin aside. There is also white beneath the bloodied fur, but not truly; there is no false purity nor innocence to Loki now, splattered in gore with his cock a rising swollen heat from the darkness between his thighs.

A growl rumbles through the ionised air between them, like ghostly utterance of the ursine dead. Then Loki is forced upon his back, upon the fur, hands fisted in Thor’s hair as he bucks his hips and fights as much as he fucks, demanding the top, demanding his right of name day, to be the man such deeds permit him now to be named.

A well-aimed thrust, and they fall upon the hard floor in a crush and crash of limbs: teeth clacking together, muscles wrenched and aching. But nothing matters, not when Loki’s long fingers are back, because even though Thor is atop with one hand crushed between the frantic hump of hips, Loki’s nails dig into the working muscle of buttock like the burn of a brand.

“You think you know pleasure?” he whispers against his neck, and then two fingers are inside, forced up past a ring of tight denial. Thor groans at the burn, though there’s unnatural slipperiness, and then _white_ —

Though he has heard foul whisper of such secret places found only in forbidden acts, Thor cares not for any right nor wrong, not now. It seems but only natural for him to stiffen beneath the ministrations of his own brother’s wicked fingers, ropes of hot come spurting between their abdomens; his heaves with release, Loki’s still oddly calm yet.

There is no time for reflection upon moral or regret. Loki is already pushing him back, pushing him over, scooping up warm whiteness. One finger slides into his mouth; just a lick, just a taste. And then he slicks it over his own hard prick, drapes his weight over his brother with his great trembling thighs pressed together, and slides his cock between them.

In this there is no meeting of mouths, only eyes. The gentle deliberate rock of hips is what Loki wants, and he takes it as he will. No bear skin adorns his long lean form now; he wears only the blood-runed skin of warrior and seiðmaðr both.

When he comes, he is silent. But an open mouth speaks eloquent of his trembling release, pupils blown wide with an endless epic penned deep in that darkness. It is more than Thor could ever hope to read, even had he had but more than a moment to do so. Then it is too late anyway; then Loki lowers himself to rest upon his brother’s body like a valiant soldier accepting of noble death upon a field of war.

For what seems long moments they lie silent together, unmoving, unwilling to disturb a universe already so changed.

“I always swore I would make of you a man,” Thor says, finally. And Loki laughs.

“You stupid always and ever boy,” he says, though it bears no true rancour. Without another word he rolls over, flows to his feet. But even as the green tendrils of his sorcery curve about him, Thor levering upright with protest upon his split and bleeding lips, Loki smiles about his last proclamation. “But do you not worry – we are brothers. We have all of eternity in which to make of _you_ a true man yet.”

Then he is gone. Thor’s bed is in his wake a riot of sheets and furs streaked with blood and sweat and come. He should clean it, perhaps. The old should be stripped away to be replaced with the new, and he should retreat to his bathing chambers to cleanse himself of all that has passed in moonstruck darkness upon the earliest hours of his younger brother’s name day.

Instead Thor lies down with a smile upon his face and closes his eyes. The coming day but one many still yet to come, and no matter how old they grow they will always have forever for such give and game.


End file.
